


A Safe Place To Land

by theoneinquisitor



Series: celebration fills [5]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Hurt/Comfort, I don't know, Kid Fic, New Parents, how do I tag this?, it's like sad and happy at the same time?, unexpected kid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 07:04:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18566365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoneinquisitor/pseuds/theoneinquisitor
Summary: When Monty and Harper die unexpectedly, Bellamy and Clarke suddenly find themselves with a six month old baby and not a lot of knowledge on how to parent. Guess they'll figure it out as they go.





	A Safe Place To Land

**Author's Note:**

> For obviesbellarke on tumblr, who asked for bellarke adjusting to parenthood.   
> My apologies for making this like, sad? I just kept thinking about Bellarke parenting Jordan for Monty & Harper so...this is where we ended up.

They become parents at exactly 3:07pm on a Wednesday in mid-October.

Unexpectedly. Tragically.

Looking back, Bellamy doesn’t remember much about the day. Just two simple events that changed life as he knew it.

The first: Monty and Harper Green both decide to play hooky from school – as a botanist, Monty just can’t justify spending three hours in a classroom teaching student about the benefits of weather to plant life when it’s a damn near perfect day. And Harper, well, her students will appreciate the sudden extension on their Chemistry Lab– So they pack up, leaving campus hand and hand to go pick up their son from daycare. They never make it.

The second: a direct result of the first.

He’s in the middle of his own lecture on Diocletian, the students of History 403 listening intently as he explains how he was, undoubtedly, one of the most important rulers of ancient times. His phone rings from his bag and he has to apologize for being _that_ professor. However, something akin to dread settles in the pit of his stomach when he see’s it’s Clarke’s picture, his favorite – she’s perched by the bay window at their house, nothing but a t-shirt to cover her as she draws in her sketchbook, hair damp from (t)he(i)r recent shower. She should be working, her shift at the hospital doesn’t end until six and in all the years she’s been a nurse, never once has she gotten off early.

“Excuse me, I have to take this,” he tells his students, walking quickly through the side exit. He answers, ducking into the empty classroom across the hall. “Everything okay?”

It’s not.

He has vague memories of returning to the classroom to dismiss the students, packing up so quickly he forgets his jacket, his glasses, and his computer. He’s in no state to drive, but he does anyway, the only other option waiting for Miller to drive the thirty minutes it would take to get to campus from his shop. Time is not on his side.

By the time he parks, the tremble in his hands is so powerful, he rattles the door when he pulls it open. The waiting room of the emergency department is nearly empty, save for one familiar blonde braid. She’s surrounded by people in suits, looking terrified. Clarke spots him as he enters, shooting out of her seat and across the small lobby in record time. When they collide, it’s like the entire world seems to collapse, and she’s sobbing into his chest while he cries into her hair. He’s still shaking when she pulls away, brushing the hair stuck to her sweat-slicked forehead.

“I was in there when they brought them in,” she whispers hoarsely, “They were already gone, Bell. God, they’re just fucking gone.”

She falls into him again and time seems to become stagnant. He tries to conjure his best memories – the one of Monty on New Year’s, drunk and singing Frankie Vallie while Harper watched with the brightest smile. That’s who they were – happy. Beautiful. Alive, in more ways than one. His heart feels like it’s shattered into a million tiny pieces and he knows Clarke’s does too and all he can do is hold her. Words won’t find him, comfort has disappeared.

All that’s left is overwhelming heartbreak.

“We’re so sorry for your loss,” one of the suits interrupts. Bellamy hadn’t seen them approach, but they’re standing an arms-length away, mouths pressed into grim lines like this is their tragedy, too. He wants to shout. Wants to push them away, hold onto Clarke, and protect themselves from the formality of funeral arrangements and obituaries and estates. But then he spots it, out of the corner of his eye, a badge on the hip of the suited woman. Department of Child Services.

Jordan.

* * *

 

They never really planned to have kids.

When Clarke was eighteen, the doctors found a spot on her ovary. Ovarian cancer, to be exact. It was an _ordeal._ She was sick for nearly a year, went through several bouts of treatment and while she came out on the other side, thank _god,_ it left her unable to conceive. They fought about it – she tried to break up with him several times during and after treatment, stating he deserved more than to be with someone so broken, so young. But he loved her, more than anything, and to hell with kids as long as it meant he could have her. He married her a year to the day she was pronounced cancer free – a quick ceremony at the courthouse with Monty and Harper as their witnesses – over five years ago, and kids weren’t even a blip on their radar.

Until now.

“Mr. and Mrs. Green listed you as emergency custodians in their will.” The social worker tells them. Her name is Diyoza, but Bellamy can’t think of her as anything but a suit.

They’re sitting now, hands clasped together as the suits go over the _will._ It’s striking to him that at 25, they had a will made because, truthfully, Bellamy has never given much thought to death. It’s always sat abstractly in the back of his mind, the knowledge that one he will die, the people he loves will die, but under the assumption that it would be much, much later in life. Even during Clarke’s battle with cancer, he pushed it to the back of his mind. She would often start: “If something happens to me…” and he would cut her off, “ _Nothing_ is happening to you.” It’s like his mind refused to understand that sometimes death comes early.

The hard truth is this: it can happen whenever to whomever.

“We need your signatures so that we can file for emergency custody and Jordan can be released to you.” They hand him a clipboard with papers attached, but he can’t make out the words. Everything is blurring together.

“What happens after that?” Clarke asks, hand still gripping his own, “Does that make us legal guardians or?”

“The emergency time frame is usually about thirty days. During that time, we try to search for next of kin family, for placement.”

His voice feels foreign to his own ears. “They don’t have any family. Blood related, anyway. We’re the closest thing you’ll find.”

Harper’s father passed away years ago, her mother disappeared when she was ten. Last he heard she was in jail for robbing a Seven-Eleven. Monty’s parents are in California, and while they would have been ideal, they’re both in their mid-sixties and struggling with their health thanks to years exposed to raw chemicals at the nuclear plant they worked on. No siblings. Maybe a stray aunt or cousin somewhere, but no one that could be trusted to take care of their child.

“It’s procedure to look and get into contact with them. But, if no solid placement is found, then the next step would be for you to file a petition for legal guardianship.”

“And we can do that after 30 days?” it amazes him how Clarke is able to form a single coherent question when all he can do is spiral. He’s so fucking grateful for her in this moment. He squeezes her hand to let her know as best he can and when she squeezes back, the weight lightens just a little bit.

“Typically. If we need longer or we feel the need for whatever reason, we can extend the emergency period for up to 90 days. Rarely does that happen.”

The social worker goes over the paperwork with them, citing rules and pointing every few lines for initials and signatures. A series of illegible squiggles and suddenly, they’re parents. Temporarily, or at least, that’s what the worker keeps saying. But even now, Bellamy knows it isn’t. They won’t find family. They’ll find friends, a line so long it could probably wrap around the hospital twice, but in the end, it’s Bellamy and Clarke they named.  And if that was their wish, Bellamy is going to make damn sure he respects it.

By the time the suits leave, Bellamy feels like he could collapse, a combination of traumatic exhaustion and overwhelming sadness threatening to break him until he’s nothing but dust. He damn near loses it when Jasper calls, a cacophony of “Tell me it isn’t true!” and “You’re a liar. You’re a liar!” All he can do is apologize, though he isn’t sure what for, maybe because though he is feeling an earth-shattering pain in his chest, he knows it’s nothing compared to what Jasper feels. Jasper Jordan, the namesake of their son. The closest thing to a brother Monty ever had.

“If you need to, come stay with us for a little while,” he finally says once the other line of the phone has calmed to a whimper.

“Yeah, maybe I will.” Jasper says. He won’t, Bellamy already knows that. He’ll pick up the bottle and drown his sorrows, something he’s done since coming home from Afghanistan last year. It’s the reason Bellamy and Clarke were their choice for guardians rather than him: he’s loved, but he can’t be relied on. Not anymore.

 They hang up, and Bellamy has half a mind to launch the phone across the room. But then Clarke walks out, backpack slung over her shoulders and he’s reaching for her instead.

When they get to the car, Bellamy finds he can’t put it in drive. They stay idling on the side of the road and he knows that her mind is in the same place. Monty and Harper had done just this: gotten in the car, probably smiling brightly at one another because _they_ took a sick day when they weren’t actually sick, and then it was over.

“I guess we should go buy a crib,” Clarke says finally, head thunking lightly against the window. “And diapers. And bottles and formula.”

This seems to be the breaking point for her, because then she’s sobbing in the passenger’s seat and he’s pulling her across the gearshift into his lap. It’s cramped and uncomfortable, but he knows she just needs to feel him. He holds it together, stroking her hair, her back, whispering soothing words into her ear though he’s not sure he believes it himself.

“We can do this,” he says, “We’ll be okay. We’re doing it for them. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

“Together.” She repeats quietly, softly pressing her lips to his jaw.

They mull over going to Target to pick up the things essentials they’ll need before the pick Jordan up the next day but decide it’s a task that can wait until morning. They go home, they mourn. Bellamy holds his wife and they cry for their friends. They cry for their family, for Jordan, for Jasper. They whisper their _I love you’s_ like it’s the last breath they’re taking.

They aren’t ready for this, but then, they don’t really have a choice.

* * *

 

By the time they pick Jordan up at two the following afternoon, they’re exhausted. Their sleep was restless, and they’ve been going since six this morning. They managed to get the bare minimum of what they would need – crib, sheets, clothes, baby monitor, bottles, formula, diapers, and wipes. Clarke spoke with Monty’s mom that morning, who encouraged them to take what they needed from Monty and Harper’s house, and though it makes the most sense, neither can bring themselves to do it. At least, not yet.

When they get him home, after another lengthy amount of paperwork and guidelines, he’s inconsolable. They try to feed him, but he won’t take the bottle. Clarke spends nearly an hour rocking him in the old rocking chair they put in the spare bedroom – a nursery, now, he supposes. Bellamy walks with him in his arms, tries to tell him stories to put him to sleep. Eventually, they just put him in his crib, still screaming. Clarke calls her mom and he calls his, both asking for advice and both getting the same answer: “Just let him cry it out, he’ll get exhausted eventually.”

“We weren’t ready for this,” Clarke says from the kitchen table. He’s stirring the sad pot of mac and cheese they’re eating for dinner, Jordan’s cries echoing down the hallway. His head is pounding. “Why would they pick us? We’re so bad at this.”

He’s been asking himself that since they signed the custody papers. They’ve known Clarke nearly their entire lives. She’s never once been around kids and often expressed her disdain for crying babies. And Bellamy, he’s zero for one on successful kids he’s raised. Helped raise, anyway. He was eight when his baby sister was born, her father out of the picture and his had died right before he was born. The only other support his mom had, other than him, was his grandmother on his dad’s side, and she lived in the Philippines. While she would visit every now and then, there wasn’t much she could help with from Cebu. Octavia became a wild child of the worst variety. He has to say, picking up his then sixteen-year-old sister from the police station is high up on his list of things he wishes he never had to experience. She’s somewhere in Colorado these days, he thinks. Eighteen and nomadic. Jesus.

He scoops a heaping pile of macaroni into a bowl and sticks a spoon into the top before sliding it across the table to her. She smiles tiredly, shoveling the cheesy noodles into her mouth, breathing erratically as she chews. “Hot, hot!”

He laughs, for the first time in what feels like years and then, she’s laughing too. They’re in hysterics within seconds, broken wheezes and coughs. Maybe this is what true grief is, just unnatural reactions to everything.

When they finally pull themselves together and Clarke can take a normal bite of food, he asks, “You think they did this on purpose? Like their cosmic way of playing a prank on us?”

“Sounds like them. Probably just wanted to see if we were as bad with kids as we always said we were.”

“I’m sure they’re getting a kick out of this.”

“Definitely. I guarantee Harper rolled her eyes when I had to google how to make a proper bottle.” When she pulled the formula out of the bag, she spent a solid twenty minutes reading the back of the cannister before giving up and googling the Wikihow. He made sure to watch her, because he’s certain had she not looked it up, he would have had to.

“And I bet Monty is appalled that we didn’t buy the cloth diapers. He’d probably say we’re ruining the environment by not reusing resources.”

“Sorry, Monty, but we’re going to have to work our way up to hand washing poopy diapers,” Clarke laughs.

It’s then he notices the eerie quiet now filling the house. The crying has stopped. “Maybe I should check on him. Make sure he’s okay.”

He’s as quiet as he can be walking down the hall, grimacing when the door creaks loudly as he pushes it open. When he peaks over the crib, sure enough, Jordan is sound asleep, small snores escaping through his nose. He let’s out a sigh of relief.

“Thank you all,” he says quietly.

And he imagines Monty clapping him on the shoulder, that familiar mischievous sparkle in his eyes. “Thought you could use a break,” he’d say.

“He’s asleep,” Bellamy says when he returns to the kitchen, sagging into the chair.

She’s finishing the last of her mac and cheese, pushing the bowl to the center of the table with a satisfied sigh. They sit in comfortable silence for a while, savoring the quiet while they can. Eventually, she reaches across the table for his hand.

“I miss them.”

“Me too,” he replies, threading his fingers through hers.

“We can do this, right? For them. For him.” 

“Of course, we can.” He’s not sure if he’s trying to convince her, himself, or Jordan’s parents. But no matter, he’s determined to make it work and he knows she is too.

* * *

 

A week after the funeral, they finally go to Monty and Harper’s house.

Monty’s mom informed them they would be selling the house and donating many of their belongings, which sent Clarke into an absolute _meltdown_. He spent almost an hour on the floor of the bathroom with her as she sobbed into his chest, a chorus of, “It’s not fair, it’s not fair. How could they just get rid of everything? How could they not care?” All he could do was hold her, one hand rubbing soothing circles into her spine as she cried because it’s the first time she’s finally, truly felt the loss.

They leave Jordan with his grandparents, their final visit with him before they move back to California and continue on with their lives. They had been angry, initially, when they found out Bellamy and Clarke had gotten custody. For a moment, Bellamy thought they were going to fight them on it. But at the funeral, Monty’s Mom had hugged Clarke tightly and said: “I know you all will be great with him. There’s no one else they trusted more.”

Bellamy doesn’t break down until he walks into the nursery. It’s filled with bright colors and decorations, plants and planes and pictures everywhere. Jordan’s name is painted on the wall right above the crib, accentuated by a shelf directly underneath covered in succulents and picture of the three of them. It’s right after his birth, Harper’s laying in the hospital smiling brightly as Monty takes the selfie of the three of them, his lips planted on her forehead. If there was any heart left to break, Bellamy’s sure this would have done the trick.

It’s hard being there, in the place that still feels so much like them. Eucalyptus and spearmint fill the air, there is a blanket leisurely thrown on the couch. Shoes are scattered about the floor and there is a half-eaten pizza in the fridge. The house is still warm, their presence still overwhelming.

He and Clarke spend hours sorting through everything, taking nearly everything out of the nursery in the hopes that it might give Jordan some comfort. Clarke clings to a giant stuffed elephant, the one she had bought for Harper when they went baby shopping last year, while Bellamy takes apart the changing table.

“It feels like we’re looting, right?” she says, chin pressed into the cotton animal, “I mean, we’re like clearing out the stuff they bought.”

He drops another screw into the plastic bag next to him, “Kind of. But it’s not like we had time to get all this stuff ourselves, you know? And I’m hoping that if Jordan is in a room with familiar things, it might help him sleep better.”

“I could paint one of those planes on the wall. With his name.” She pauses before laughing softly, “I always thought that was so cheesy. I remember when Harper sent me the picture and I teased her for being _that_ mom.”

“We all knew they were going to be those corny parents. I’m pretty sure Monty was ecstatic that he could finally rock his Dad style without judgment. You know he credited himself with the resurgence of strappy sandals. He was ready to file a lawsuit against Chaco’s for jacking in his brand.”

“Oh my God, I forgot about that!”

By the time they leave, they have a car full of baby items and other abstract things, including many of Monty’s house plants and boxes upon boxes of photos. When they pick Jordan up, he’s sound asleep in his carrier and they leave Monty’s parents with tearful hugs and a promise that they will protect and love their grandson with their whole hearts.

* * *

 

Thirty days pass in a blur of diapers, minimal sleep, and many, many tears.

The social worker comes by on a Tuesday, knocking on their door while Bellamy is elbow deep in a shit-splosion. Clarke has Jordan in the bath while he’s cleaning up the changing area – one thing no one warned them about was the explosive diarrhea infants can have and he’s doing his best not to add his own puke to the current mess. The smell, God, the smell is so terrible and it’s such an _awful_ color, and he’s spraying and wiping and spraying and wiping some more but it seems like all he’s doing is smearing it everywhere.

“Bellamy!” he hears Clarke shout from the bathroom, “Door!”

It’s really his first taste of parenthood, having to run to the door with his hands covered in baby poop, smelling like sweat and shit all rolled into one.

“Oh, hey!” he greets, moving aside to let Diyoza in. She’s more casual this time around, no suit, just jeans and sweatshirt. Her badge hangs around her neck, a much younger version of herself smiling back.

She takes in his appearance, smirking when she sees the small stain at the bottom of his gray t-shirt, “Your first shit-tastrophe?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, guiding her to kitchen. “It was pretty bad.”

“My daughter had it bad when she was baby,” she says sympathetically, which does actually make him feel a little better. “It’s a formula thing.”

“It’s a nightmare,” he mumbles. “Can I get you something to drink?”

They chat idly about parenthood, mostly about how he and Clarke are adjusting to the unexpected addition to their lives. He admits, it’s been a challenge. Jordan cries a lot – he may be too young to know what exactly has happened, but he knows something is off. They don’t sleep much and they’re still learning all the little nuisances. Just last week, they learned that babies have the _sharpest_ nails, and that you’re supposed to cut them regularly. They also learned, after Jordan had scratched his face in numerous spots, that there are little mittens to prevent that. How the hell people know these things, it’s a mystery. They’re learning as they go.

Clarke brings Jordan out swaddled in a fresh onesie, cradling the now clean baby in her arms with a tired smile.

“Got the mess all cleaned up?” Diyoza asks. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”

“So, I take it you didn’t find any family, then?”

She didn’t, as expected. Monty’s parents were the only other option and they had given Bellamy and Clarke a glowing recommendation, something that gives him a strange sense of pride. They might be fumbling their way through sudden parenthood, but they’re doing their best.

Diyoza provides them with all the paperwork necessary for a petition on legal guardianship. It usually takes another month or so to kick in, and she thinks they won’t have any issues with filing. She also leaves them with her card, telling them to call her in the next year to go over the adoption process, should that be something they’re interested in. There isn’t much difference in legal guardianship and adoption, really, except the meaning behind it, but she wanted to give them the option.

When she leaves, they collapse onto the couch, Jordan fast asleep on Clarke’s chest.

“Pooping must have worn him out,” Bellamy jokes. He runs his hand through her hair, stopping at the nape of her neck to massage it gently. She lets out a quiet moan.

“Guess this makes it official, huh?” she murmurs, leaning into his touch.

“Not until the petition gets approved, but yeah, pretty much.”

“Crazy isn’t it? I figured we’d just be the cool Aunt and Uncle to everyone else’s kids. And now…”

Jordan hiccups, stirring only briefly before letting out a soft snore. Clarke rubs his back idly, snuggling into Bellamy’s side as they watch the boy sleep.

“I love you,” he tells her, pressing his lips to her forehead, “So much.”

“I love you, too.”

* * *

 

Life goes on. Things change and they find themselves in a long-term adjustment period.

One of the first changes comes when Clarke moves the night shift, permanently.

He had tried to talk her out of it, knowing just how much she hates working nights and selfishly, how much he hates her working nights. But she’s stubborn and sacrificial like that – she wanted to make sure he could continue teaching on a normal schedule and they could avoid daycare, at least while he’s a baby. But damn it, he misses sleeping next to his wife at night.

They’ve shared a bed for nearly seven years, his body naturally gravitating to hers at night to wrap around her. The first few nights without her are miserable. He can’t sleep, not really, because his arm will reach out and fall onto empty sheets. His instinct is to panic, which isn’t entirely new, but the weight of it shocks him still. Perhaps because since losing Monty and Harper, he’s felt an overwhelming fear of losing _her_ , something he had forced himself to stop thinking about when she went into remission years ago.

But everything about them feels more intense now. When they sit next to one another, they’re always touching. When they do get to sleep in the same bed, they cling to each other, even when the body heat becomes unbearable. When they manage to find time between work and Jordan’s naps to make love, it’s slow. Intimate. It’s all _I love you, I need you, forever, forever._

They do argue more, now. Sleep deprivation is a _bitch,_ and once small annoyances becomes the worst thing in the universe. He and Clarke argue for nearly an hour about socks in the bathroom and dishes in the sink. She goes on a complete rampage when Bellamy dozes off on the couch while Jordan is in the electronic rocker, which is actually incredibly safe and he was asleep, too, so that particularly pissed him off. But they never go to bed angry, one of them always apologizes, and they understand it’s just part of adjusting. They’re in this together.

Another change is that they don’t have time for much, anymore. They were fairly social, before the accident. Both would go out with friends, they’d do trivia on Thursdays, and Clarke had sand-volleyball on Monday nights. They no longer have that flexibility, the ability to do whatever they wanted. They have a life to look after now; if they want to do something, they have to arrange a babysitter and while both his and Clarke’s mom would happily watch Jordan for a few hours, neither one of them wants to give him up. So Clarke quits Sand Volleyball and they end up taking Jordan to Trivia once before deciding that will _never_ happen again. They spend most of their time at home with him, which makes them both a bit stir crazy at times.

Clarke, instead, starts painting again. She paints the nursery wall first, Jordan’s name in big block letters accentuated by a long, red plane underneath, Monty and Harper painted on the wings. She paints a mural on the other wall, an extravagant garden of flowers that takes his breath away. He tells her as much when she shows him the final product.

Sometimes, having a kid can be emotionally draining. There is a constant weight of wanting to do the best they can for Jordan, but also his parents. And then there’s this idea that they _are_ his parents, which weirdly feels like their trying to replace Monty and Harper and neither one of them knows how to approach that.

Any time someone approaches them when they’re out, looking into the baby carrier or the stroller to see Jordan cooing happily, they always compliment them on their son. And they smile, say thank you, and feel proud for exactly two seconds before the guilt sets in.

“I want him to know who his parents were,” Clarke says as they sit in the park. She’s bouncing Jordan in her lap while Bellamy holds his stuffed elephant, drawing light giggles from the boy when he boops his nose. “How much they loved him. How good they were. But Bell, we’re all he’s going to know. He’s too young to remember them and we’re going to be Mom and Dad. How do we even,,.?”

“Hey,” he says gently, doing his best to be the voice of reason even though his head is spinning just as fast, “We’ll figure it out when we get there.”

A frightening thought, but it’s really all they can do. Figure it out as they go.

 

* * *

 

Nine months. That’s typically how long parents are given to prepare for their kid. They have approximately nine months to read books, buy what they need, set up doctors and support systems and what not. And for people who adopt, well, they prepare for this over time because they are intentionally choosing to adopt a child into their lives.

They do their research as time goes on. What they learn is the “New Parent Experiences” includes the following:

  1. Rushing your baby to the hospital when he has even a slight fever, because you’re terrified that it’s something major and you don’t want to risk it. The nurses are nice about it, you get an antibiotic, and next time, you remember to use Google when there are any symptoms.
  2. Sometimes babies puke on you. That’s why you should always carry a change of clothes with you.
  3. Diaper rashes are NOT the end of the world. They look worse than they are nine times out of ten and with a good cream, it’ll go away fairly quickly.
  4. Which leads into: diaper brands are important, and there is an entire science to shopping for diapers and wipes.
  5. It’s okay to let him cry it out sometimes, especially when you know he doesn’t want anything except to be out of the crib because he’s bored.
  6. It’s also okay to hold him as much as they want – Clarke’s mom had told them to be liberal with holding him, they didn’t want to make him reliant upon them or spoiled. But Bellamy called bullshit on that one.
  7. Taking a break is vital for mental sanity, and it doesn’t actually include work. Bellamy gets dinner with Miller every weekend now, while Clarke has started doing Sand Volleyball again. Every Sunday, he and Clarke go see a movie while Aurora watches him, and while initially, it was terrifying leaving him for a few hours, they realized just how much they needed the break.
  8. Babies are clumsy. They fall into stuff, they roll every which way, and hit their heads _a lot._ There does not need to be excessive panic every time, it’ll be okay. Again, Google is their friend.
  9. Take pictures. Take videos. Because they grow fast and it can be exciting and confusing and sad.
  10. They will die for this tiny human. Sacrifice whatever takes to make him laugh, to protect him. Before you can even fathom what’s happening, he becomes their world.



* * *

 

Jordan’s first word is “Dada” and he says it on his first birthday.

They had debated having a party, wondering if it was really appropriate because it’s only been six months since the accident and a party feels somewhat inappropriate. In the end, they invite family and a few friends over for cookout. It’s a nice day, the first one of spring, and they figured they could pull out the grill. Bellamy considers himself a grill-master, after all, and it’s been a while since he’s reminded everyone.

Jasper shows up, to their surprise. He had disappeared since everything happened, only keeping in touch with Clarke over text, mostly when she would check up on him – which, checking up on Jasper often meant texting him repeatedly until he got annoyed and answer, but it’s an effective method and as long as they know he’s okay, it’s really all they can do. Clarke gets him a coffee and he takes it with an empty smile, before pouring a shot of bourbon into it when he thinks no one is looking. He holds Jordan almost the entire evening, even putting him in his high chair to feed him when the time comes, and it’s a small glimpse at the Jasper they all used to know.

It all feels relatively normal, considering. Nothing has felt right since the accident, always a bit off kilter, a bit overwhelming. But as they spend the evening eating cake, taking photos, and laughing with their friends and family, things start to feel okay.

“I think someone’s tired,” Abby says, handing Jordan over to Clarke. She runs a hand along his smooth head, still nearly hairless, and plants a kiss on him. “We should head out, anyway.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Clarke says, standing from the patio table. “I need to get him ready for bed anyway. You all are more than welcome to stay as long as you like.”

In the end, his mom leaves as well, as does everyone else. Miller claps him on the shoulder, while Murphy slides him a joint, despite his adamant rejection.

“Just for emergencies,” he grins, grabbing Emori’s hand to drag her from the house before Bellamy has time to throw it back at him.

When the moment comes, Clarke is passing him in the hallway. He’s hardly even paying attention until he hears her says, “Oh my God, did he just—”

And then Jordan babbles something before saying, rather excitedly, “Dada!”

Bellamy freezes, watching as the boy reaches over Clarke’s shoulder, as if reaching out for him and he keeps saying it, over and over. In awe, Bellamy reaches out a pulls Jordan into his arms, the baby talk stopping immediately when he sinks into his chest and sighs tiredly.

When he finally looks at Clarke, she has tears in her eyes and he reaches for her to pull her in. It’s a surreal moment, standing there with Jordan and his wife, realizing that the boy is his son and this is his family, and despite tragedy, something beautiful is coming from it.

They spend far too long standing next to his crib, watching as he settles in and falls asleep nearly instantly. They don’t talk, just cling to one another as the weight of everything finally comes crashing down on them. It’s the first real moment that they feel like parents rather than guardians, rather than Aunt Clarke and Uncle Bellamy.

When they return to the kitchen to clean up, Jasper is standing next to their fridge, drinking wine straight from the bottle. He wishes he could find the humor in it, that he could say it’s not a regular occurrence. They all did an intervention on him once. Monty even convinced him to go to rehab and up until the accident, he was almost sober. Part of Bellamy wants to rip the bottle from his hands and hit him over the head with it, tell him to stop killing himself slowly. It’s not what Monty would have wanted. But Jasper copes in his own ways, he’s learned. He doesn’t listen and he doesn’t care. He functions like he’s supposed to; he just numbs the pain.

“You know,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, “You all make really good parents.”

Clarke smiles sadly at him, reaching over to slip the bottle from his hands. She corks it and puts it back. “Thanks, Jas.”

“I mean it. That kid loves you. Monty and Harper would be proud of you all. Especially since, you know, a year ago you would die if you heard a kid cry in the grocery store.”

“Still not a fan of the crying part,” Bellamy jokes.

“Just…don’t be afraid to parent the kid. I know it’s weird, ‘cuz Monty and Harper are his parents and it’s like, you don’t want to overstep your boundaries. But he’s a baby and the only memory he’s gonna have of them is you all. They’re his parents, but you’re Mom and Dad, you know?”

The only thing he can do is hug the man. Jasper lets out a huff of surprise, before wrapping his gangly arms around Bellamy’s bulky frame. He laughs into his shoulder. “Never thought you were much of a hugger.”

“Something’s change, I guess,” Bellamy says. He pulls back when Jasper burps in his ear. “Maybe you should stay in the guest room tonight, bud.”

Once Jasper is put to bed and they check on Jordan, they finally slide into the sheets together, exhausted, yet too wired to sleep. Clarke nuzzles into his neck, pressing her lips softly against his pulse point. “He called you Dad.”

“He did,” he grins in the dark. His hand travels down her back, tracing her spine through the thin cotton of her t-shirt. “You into dad’s now? Got a daddy kink, Griffin?”

She shoves his shoulder before climbing on top of him, pinning his wrists to the bed beneath them. “First of all, don’t make it weird. Second of all, that’s Blake to you.”

“You know I love you, right?” he says, pulling one of his hands free so he can push the curtain of blonde curls back, “We’re going to be the best parents.”

“We already are. At least, I think they would be proud of us, you know?”

“Definitely. And for the record, I definitely have a thing for mom’s now, so…”

“Oh?” she grins, leaning down to kiss him, grinding herself into his lap. He presses himself into it, brushing his tongue along hers, they’re all traveling hands and quiet laughter and…

A soft cry comes through the baby monitor.

She drops her head to his shoulder and groans. “I got him.” She has to adjust her t-shirt and pull her pajama shorts back on from where they were discarded moments ago. “We’re finishing what we started, though.”

He smiles to himself as she grabs the monitor and walks down the hallway to check on Jordan. They’ve got this parenting thing down, now.

* * *

 

_One Year Later_

“Slow down, speed racer!” Bellamy huffs, jogging to keep up with his son as he waddles towards the swing set. He manages to grab his hand as he trips over the pole, catching him before he can go down.

This kid is clumsy as hell.

“He’s going to be a track star when he grows up,” Clarke finally catches up, adjusting the backpack on her shoulder as she takes Jordan’s other hand.

“Probably. No hurdles, though. He’d probably trip over them.”

They walk him away from the swing set, for now, to a small grassy patch under an oak tree. It’s perfect day at the park, the kind worth skipping school and work and everything in between for. They lay out a small blanket, some snacks, and Jordan’s favorite elephant. He claps excitedly when he see’s it, hugging it to his chest.

“Too bad they don’t allow open containers,” Clarke sighs, handing him one of two cans of Coca Cola, “This feels far less celebratory than champagne.”

“Well, we do have a thing for the unconventional,” he tells her, popping the tab. He reaches into the diaper bag for a small envelop, ripped open at the top already, and pulls out the single sheet of paper. They already knew of course, but the paper just made it that much more official.

The adoption officially went through. They are no longer legal guardians, but legal parents of Jordan Jasper Green (now: Jordan Jasper Green-Blake). The decision to hyphenate his name was a tough one – the last thing they wanted was for him to ever feel like he wasn’t their child. But they wanted to make sure he always knew where he came from, who his biological parents were. So they decided to give him a joint last name. They only hope he cherishes it as much a they do, but in the end, when he’s old enough he can choose the name he wants to use.

It’s been over a year and half since the accident. On the anniversary they took Jordan to the gravesite and laid flowers for them. He and Clarke talked until they were blue in the face, told them about Jordan’s adventures. He started walking at 13 months, started talking non-stop at 15 months, and is too smart for his own good. He loves the sound of paper ripping and cracking peanuts, he laughs _a lot,_ which has filled their house with more joy than they imagined possible. He’s popular at daycare, with the other kids and the staff, always smiling or getting into something. He’s damn near perfect.

“To your son,” Bellamy raises his Coke to the sky. Clarke does the same, while using her free hand to raise Jordan’s tiny hand. He then holds his drink towards her, “To our son.”

“To our son,” she repeats, clinking the aluminum against his.

They become parents under the worst of circumstances, but they’re making the best of it. The Blake family is so, so loved.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I know nothing about babies, I'm gonna be honest. Like next to nothing. So all of this was half-heartedly researched and the other half, from my own very, very non-existent knowledge of custody and babies. Don't @ me.
> 
> Fic 5/14.   
> Comments and Kudos always appreciated.   
> Come hang on [tumblr!](https://octannibal-blake.tumblr.com)


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